2026
by Dixiegirl256
Summary: Two years ago, we shared the last episode of Fringe. Tonight, we celebrate that it existed. In honor of the magic that is Fringe... the sequel to "Thirty Days". Beta by the incomparable OConnellAboo and motivation to post by Elialys. Go read her latest!


Peter Bishop leaned back in his office chair, and swung his feet up on a corner of his desk cleared specifically for that purpose. He had one of the few offices on campus with windows that actually opened, and he took full advantage of it.

The phone on his desk buzzed and the display lit up with the caller's information.

"Answer," he said clearly, and the phone beeped.

"Dr. Bishop's office."

"And where is the good doctor this afternoon?"

"Oh, I'm sure he's sleeping it off under one of the lab tables. I'm the assistant, what can I do ya for?"

"That's too bad. I was hoping to interest him in a little hanky-panky, but -"

Peter snorted. "Hanky panky?"

"Shut up. You're just the lab assistant. What do you know?"

"I know not even _Walter_ said hanky-panky after the '70's." He slid his feet off the desk and hit the video display on his phone, smiling as he saw Olivia, _his_ Olivia, giggling, her nose crinkled and a broad smile on her face. "So, what's up, boss?"

"Absolutely nothing, for a change." She took on a more serious tone. "Brandon and Astrid are writing up the file notes from the last couple of cases, and I have nothing new on my desk."

"That alone deserves a celebration. Have anything in mind?"

"How about Regina's? I think the kids are headed to your office."

Peter tapped an icon on his monitor and scanned the images from the security cameras. "Yep, Etta's herding them this way. Meet you there?"

"See you in twenty. Love you." She smiled softly, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Sounds good…" and as three kids tumbled noisily into his office, he blew kisses to the display. "I love you, too, honeybunch!" he replied over a chorus of groans.

"Gross, Dad. Really gross," Etta huffed as she dropped her backpack by the desk.

He turned back to the video display and smiled once more at his wife before disconnecting.

"Don't get too comfortable. We're headed to Regina's." He clicked a few icons, shutting down his desktop, and grabbed his own bag. "Homework?" he asked, as he shepherded Etta and her brothers out of the office.

"They've got Algebra problems," Etta said disdainfully, nodding towards the twin boys behind them, "And I have a paper to write, but I've already done the research."

"Good," her father replied, "You can help the boys if they need it." He smiled at her look of disgust and the boys' grumbling, knowing he'd just guaranteed that they'd be figuring out any problems on their own before asking their big sister for help. "Now, who wants what on their pizza?"

ooo

Peter flipped over the last page of scribbled equations and handed it back to Walt. "Fix that last problem and you're good to go."

Charlie opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly when he noticed his father's warning stare, and decided to put away his homework instead. "Going for a run, Dad?"

Peter stood up and stretched, then looked over at Olivia and Etta, heads bent over Etta's laptop. "If it's okay with the ladies…"

Etta rolled her eyes. "Again? You run every night, Dad."

"Have to keep up with your mom, honey. She'll dump me for a younger man if I don't stay in shape." He winked at Olivia and tugged Etta's ponytail as he passed by, eliciting another eye roll and an exasperated huff.

He'd never admit it to his teenaged daughter, but he _did_ work at keeping up with Olivia. Even after two pregnancies & three kids, she was as svelte and toned at 45 as she'd been the day she dragged him out of Iraq. She worked out every day and still had to pass the rigorous FBI physical, although she'd transferred to a 'desk job' as the head of Fringe Division, replacing Phillip Broyles when he was elected to the Senate.

Despite MIT's best efforts to make him department head, Peter kept his schedule fluid and his class load light – honors seminars only, with the students handpicked. If Olivia was in the field, he was right there with her – he didn't trust anyone else to have her back, which meant he had to stay in shape.

"Grab your gear. It's late, we'll make it a short one tonight," he called to the boys over his shoulder. "Maybe just to the park and back."

The twins secured their iPods and Peter touched his earclip phone, verifying the connectivity. Sharing technology with the Other Side was yet another perk of the truce they'd established years ago. With a nod to the boys, he led them out of their neighborhood.

He liked to set the pace and direction, then drop back a few strides to watch his boys; Walt, the older by three minutes ("and fourteen seconds", he always reminded them with his grandfather's impish grin), was a Bishop through and through – impulsive, effusive, and brilliant. Charlie, while no less brilliant, had more of Olivia's quiet determination (her words) and stubborn streak (Peter's words). They both shared the "Bishop crease" as Etta had dubbed it, but Peter saw his father in Walt's curly brown hair and blazing blue eyes, and Olivia smiled back at him in Charlie's wide grin. His hair, while still curly like the rest of the Bishop men, was a dark blond that framed his deep set hazel eyes.

Like any parents, Peter and Olivia worried about their kids – childhood illnesses, accidents, ill-informed decisions, bad luck. Unlike other parents, they had another, more unique set of worries. What challenges would children born to parents from two different universes have to face? Would the Cortexiphan lingering in Olivia's system impact their development? Would Peter's childhood disease return in this generation?

So far, they'd determined that Etta had inherited Peter's cocky attitude and Charlie had Olivia's eidetic memory, but Phillip Walter Bishop was their challenge. He'd been named after his grandfather only by virtue of being the first of the twins to make an appearance, but it could not be more appropriate. Peter saw his father in Walt's every expression, heard him in every declaration, and felt him as Walt's emotions changed from wonder to despair and back again, all in the blink of an eye.

Even during their run, Walt channeled his namesake, singing along with his iPod and gesturing grandly in time to a beat only he heard. Charlie swatted at him when he invaded his space, and Peter lengthened his stride to intercede.

As they turned into the park, Charlie touched his shoulder. "Dad, look at that guy."

In the early evening, their neighborhood park still had a fair number of people milling about: families pushing strollers or riding bikes, boarders or bladers out before dark, couples walking hand in hand. Nothing unusual.

Except for the figure Charlie noticed… an older man of average height, a little stocky… in a gray suit and a fedora, carrying a black briefcase.

Peter looked up when Charlie spoke and followed his gaze; when he saw the man, merely standing in the grass behind a bench, he stopped, frozen, staring directly at the figure in gray. The two boys kept running. Charlie, having brought the man to his father's attention, stopped first; Walt, lost in song, continued down their usual route, which would take him right in front of the stranger.

Charlie turned. "Dad?"

His son's voice brought him back to the present moment. "Charlie… where's Walt?" He looked around frantically, always glancing hurriedly back to the man behind the bench. "Walt?" he called, starting to jog as he spotted Walt nearing the bench.

"Walt! Come here now!" he yelled. He felt a cold pain in his chest; this reminded him too much of a memory that never was. "WALT!"

Peter's voice finally penetrated his musical fog. Walt turned to answer his father and, at the same time, the man in the gray suit and fedora simply…vanished. Peter threw an arm around Charlie's shoulders, breathing heavily.

When Walt joined them, Peter grabbed his shoulder. "You're alright? He didn't say anything?"

Walt shook his head. "Who?"

Charlie shook his head in annoyance; although he was used to Walt being oblivious to his surroundings, he sometimes grew tired of recapping what had just happened under his brother's nose.

Peter pulled the boys close and gazed around the area. It was too early for the street lights, but the fading sunlight was blocked by the trees lining the green space, and their shadows grew long. "C'mon, let's get out of here," he said, turning them back to the park entrance. "Stay close to me."

"But, what happ-"

"Who was that, Dad?"

"We'll talk about it at home. Let's go." Peter set a rapid pace, but kept both boys within an arm's reach.


End file.
